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A STANFORD 

Book of Verse 








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5 

( >wo k^o^vy cXwv* ( 

A STANFORD 


Book of Verse 


1912-1916 / 



PRINTED FOR THE ENGLISH CLUB 
1916 


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Copyright, 1916 

By THE ENGLISH CLUB 
of STANFORD UNIVERSITY 



CARRUTH 8 CARRUTH CO., PRINTERS, OAKLAND 


© Cl. A 4 5 3 3 2 2 



l 


To 


William Herbert Carruth 

We 

INSCRIBE THIS BOOK 


THE EDITORIAL COMMITTEE 

of 

THE ENGLISH CLUB 

GEROID ROBINSON 
DOROTHY GUNNELL JENKINS 
JAMES LEO DUFF 
FAUNA WYNNE FARRIS 
DARE STARK 


A LLED by the Thunderer from his choir 
To scourge rebellious mortal kind, 

Apollo winged his darts of fire , 

Then sped , fulfilled his office dire , 

BacJ^ Olympus , there to find 
Man-children playing with his lyre. 


W. H. C. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Youth’s Songs Maxwell Anderson 1 

Mute Margery Bailey 2 

To a Canary Dorothy Stillman Duryea 3 

The Instrument - Maxwell Anderson 4 

The Pot of Gold Dorothy Gunnell Jenkins 5 

The Shepherd to the Poet Agnes Gray 6 

To Fauna Wynne Farris 7 

Irish Song . James Leo Duff 8 

Song Dorothy Gunnell Jenkins 9 

Hanna Danced With Me 

Fauna Wynne Farris 9 

Quest Dorothy Gunnell Jenkins 10 

Love Song Marjorie Charles Driscoll 11 

Cup and Lip - Gladys Green 12 

The Road Dorothy Gunnell Jenkins 13 

The Song of Thomas the Rhymer 

Marjorie Charles Driscoll 15 

Dross Margery Bailey 16 

End-All Maxwell Anderson 17 

Antigone in the Greek Theatr e....Mary Curry 18 

Pausanias at Dodona - Karl Green 19 

Spring Unaware Agnes Kendrick Gray 20 

A Song of the Expulsion .... 

Elinor Valoy Cogswell 21 

The Pebbles Alice Marie Rogers 22 

Hate.... Gladys Briggs Cluff 23 


v 


VI 


Contents 


PAGE 

To An Opium Den — Chinatown 

- Gordon Davis 25 

Old Gladys Briggs Cluff 26 

Light Geroid Robinson 27 

Magnificat Elinor Valoy Cogswell 28 

The Last Laugh Gladys Briggs Cluff 29 

Mood George G. Hoisholt 31 

Mater Dolorosa James Leo Duff 32 

If I Should Go Gladys Green 33 

Mortem Saluto James Leo Duff 34 

A Portrait Dorothy Stillman Duryea 36 

Star Dust „ H. Hardy Heth 37 

Shaneen James Leo Duff 38 

Luck!. Dare Stark 39 

Waking in the Morning Sydnie Gardner 40 

The Wanderer Dare Stark 41 

Home Robert Donaldson 42 

At the End of a Day of Disappointments 

— James Leo Duff 42 

Smoke Doris Estcourt 43 

Sea Music Gladys Green 45 

In March...... J)are Stark 46 

In the English Seminar Room : 

Sydnie Gardner 47 

Wind at Night Mary Curry 48 

Old Letters Maurice Dooling 49 

Books Marjorie Charles Driscoll 50 

Little Pat James Leo Duff 52 

Little Year Alice Marie Rogers 53 

Fuzzy- Wuzzy Fauna Wynne Farris 53 


Contents 


vii 

PAGE 

To a Wood-Rat James Leo Duff 54 

To a Little Bug James Leo Duff 55 

The Thorn Fauna Wynne Farris 56 

Monterey Glenn Arthur Hughes 58 

The Grave of a Garden Robert V. Higgins 59 

The Moonlit Seasons James W. Bennett 60 

Fire of the Desert Glenn Arthur Hughes 61 

The Cypress Tree Margery Bailey 62 

The Tambour-Frame....C7ar£nce B. Hammond 63 

Shakespeare Went to Italy 

Maxwell Anderson 65 

Spring in the Hospital Robert V. Higgins 67 

The Waterside Lass Margery Bailey. —68 

Crucified — Geroid Robinson 70 

The Parable of the Vineyard.. William Logan 71 

Kings Maxwell Anderson 75 

The Cross Geroid Robinson 76 

Evening on the Hills Helen Kreps 78 

Longing Robert Donaldson 80 

Moons Dare Stark 82 

Youth Maxwell Anderson 84 

Desire Gladys Briggs Cluff 85 

Amateurs Geroid Robinson 86 

The Dreamer «... Maurice Dooling 87 

Dreams Gladys Green 88 


t '*• 




YOUTH’S SONGS 


'TVHEY lift upon the first rush of bright 
wings 

Into the heaven of singing ; and they dare 
To glimpse unseen and utter tacit things, 
And with unstained hands from the temple 
tear 

The inmost veil to find if truth be there. 
They chant in darkness with unbated breath 
The age-old exorcisms of despair — 

How may we sing who once have walked 
with death? 

O Poet, Poet, lingering, lingering late 
To dream fulfilment of star-high desire, 

A little longer and in vain you wait 
The flush of mystery, the cloak of fire; 
Youth’s songs have wings, but after-words 
shall be 

As gray leaves fallen to the wild white sea. 

Maxwell Anderson. 


1 


MUTE 

I HAVE heard whistling in the dew-wet 
mornings ; 

I have heard singing in the mist-swept 
evenings ; 

But for me there is neither whistling nor 
singing. 

What do they sing of — they that sing in 
the twilight? 

Why do they whistle — those who shrill in 
the dawning? 

They sing of the life they live and the bur- 
dens they carry. 

Have I not burdens to lay down at the 
night-time ? 

Do I not live and live in the brightness of 
daytime ? 

O Thou all-knowing, — why am I voice- 
less . . . voiceless ? 

Margery Bailey. 


2 


TO A CANARY 


'T'EACH me to sing, 

Thou tiny yellow bird 
Within thy cage! 

All thy wee body throbs 
To that soft pulse 
That beats against thy throat; 
And, all untaught, 

Thy magic melody 

Ripples aloft 

Into the endless blue. 

Teach me to sing! 

Behind thy prison bars 
No note of grief, 

For captive wings untried, 
Breaks thy glad song; 

Thy Gloria 

Holds no reproach for Him 
Who made thee free. 

And I, with all the world 
To wander in, 

Can never sing like thee! 

Dorothy Stillman Duryea. 


3 


THE INSTRUMENT 


A N iron harp with sullen strings 
Is this whereon my fancy rings 
The changes of my destiny; 

Though sad or glad the song may be 
Harsh is the clamor that it flings. 

Yet songless queens have lived and kings, 
And luteless many underlings ; 

Then grieve I that birth tendered me 
An iron harp? 

Only Lord Shakespeare sits and sings 
The gamut of melodious things ; 

Each other touches wistfully 
Few stops, and in a single key. 

I strike the instrument life brings — 

An iron harp! 

Maxwell Anderson. 


4 


THE POT OF GOLD 


T CALLED him friend, but he was no 
■■■ friend 

Who laughing told that tale to me 
Of gold in a pot at the rainbow’s end, 

And as far and as far as I could see 
I followed the shining rainbow’s track, — 
And now it is night. I cannot go back. 

I called him friend ; but the rainbow dies, — 
(He laughed as he told of the pot of 
gold,) 

It fades to the purple of twilight skies, 

And the road up the hill is cold, is cold. 
But straight I follow into the night, 

And pray I may keep to the way aright. 

He told me the path was an easy way ; — 
The sky is dark where the bright arch 
shone, 

And night has stolen the light of day ; 

It is dark on the hillside, alone, alone. 

But I answered the call of the wealth he 
told, — 

I follow the lure of the pot of gold. 

Dorothy Gunnell Jenkins. 


5 


THE SHEPHERD TO THE POET 


O CH, what’s the good o’ spinnin’ words 
As fine as silken thread? 

Will “golden gorse upon the hill” 

Be gold to buy ye bread? 

An’ while ye’re list’nin’ in the glen 
“To catch the thrush’s lay,” 

Your thatch is scattered be th’ wind, 

Your sheep have gone astray. 

Th’ time ye’re afther makin’ rhymes 
O’ leppin’ waves an’ sea, 

Arrah ! ye should be sellin’ then 
Your lambs upon the quay! 

Sure, ’tis God’s ways is very quare, 

An’ far beyant me ken, 

How o’ the selfsame clay He makes 
Poets an’ useful men ! 

Agnes Gray. 


6 


TO 

T ATELY, remembering how since an- 

^ cient days 

The master-poet lovers have out-poured 
Their hearts’ high throbbing songs, and 
the adored 

Immortalized in amatory praise, 

I sighed, “All has been said. There is no 
phrase 

Of tenderness unused; there is no chord 
Unchimed, no fancy that has not been 
stored 

Away in curio-wise for public gaze.” 

Last night beside the star-reflecting lake 
We walked, your beauty’s pale serenity 

More lovely than the peaceful night. The 
ache 

Of my world-weary heart was stilled in 
me, 

And now I know, I know that I shall make 
New songs to you throughout eternity. 

Fauna Wynne Farris. 


7 


IRISH SONG 


S URE, th’ breezes that blow are no lighter 
than you are — 

When you trip o’er th’ grass, faith, ’twill 
scarce bind a stalk; 

And your eyes are as bright as th’ drops o’ 
th’ dew are, 

Arrah, birds stop to listen whiniver you 
talk, 

For th’ songs that they sing are no music 
beside you — 

Th’ sound o’ your voice is like sun after 
showers ; 

’Tis sure that I am that if all Nature died, 
you 

Would soon take th’ place that was left be 
th’ flowers ! 

James Leo Duff. 


8 


SONG 


'TVHERE is life in the green of the hills, 
There is joy in the mist in the hollow, 
Where the song of the meadow-lark 
thrills, — 

Up, my heart, follow. 

There is joy in the song of the sea, 
There is life in the dip of the swallow, 
And the voice of the world calls to me,— 
Up, my heart, follow. 

Dorothy Gunnell Jenkins. 


HANNA DANCED WITH ME 

H ANNA danced with me tonight, 
Hanna, of the toes that twinkle. 
Gods on great Olympus’ height, 

Enviously your dark brows wrinkle, 

Vent your wrath, and IT1 reply, 

“All the bliss this world’s enhanced with 
I’ve enjoyed, for it was I 
Hanna danced with.” 

Fauna Wynne Farris. 


9 


QUEST 

L OVE, I came seeking precious worldly 
gold 

And prayed that men might see my wealth 
abound, — 

You see the poppies blowing on the hills, 
The gold I found. 

I sought to make a wondrous melody, 

Love, I have wasted many a useless 
year,— 

You hear the sighing of the summer wind, 
The song I hear. 

I prayed, my love, oh, long I prayed for 
light 

To love the God they taught me long 
ago,— 

You cannot see the light, ’tis in your eyes, 
The love I know. 

Dorothy Gunnell Jenkins. 


10 


LOVE SONG 


T TOW do I love you? 

-*■ Not as the flame, ardent and all-con- 
suming — 

I have seen dying fires and gray ashes and 
broken hearts. 

Not as the worshipper, low-kneeling, awed 
before the altar — 

I have seen eyes that wandered to new gods 
while the prayers grew meaningless. 

Not as the vine, close-clinging, tendrils 
clasping the oak tree — 

I have seen great trees that fell in ruin, 
choked by the embrace. 


How do I love you? 

As the tired gull loves the cliff-nook over 
the raging sea, 

As the wanderer loves his own hearthstone, 
as weary eyes love the dark and rest 
and sleep, — 

A place of utter calm and abiding, 


11 


12 Cup and Lip 

Where there is no more storm and tossing 
tempest, 

Where there is no more crying and beating 
of wings, 

Where there is peace and contentment and 
home. 

* Marjorie Charles Driscoll. 


CUP AND LIP 

T)LEASANT the task of the lips 
Which drain the cup ; 

Nobler the goblet’s part, — 

To render up. 

Happy the life of the bee 
Who plunders the rose ; 

Sweeter the lot of the flower 
That gives, — who knows? 

Glory for him who gains ; 

Divine the role 

Of one who answers his touch, 
And offers a soul. 

Gladys Green. 


THE ROAD 


"DEFORE my door a white road runs 
away to the mountains blue, 

A long, long road with a secret goal, be- 
yond the hills to the sea. 

And at night I dream of a setting forth with 
none beside but you, 

I dream of the touch of your hand on mine 
and the song of your voice to me. 

The night wind blows on my cheek with the 
touch of spray-damp ocean air, 

Its voice in the treetops sings the song of 
a distant roaring sea, 

At the end of the road, beyond the hills, — 
and we are faring there 
With a song in the stars as we round the 
bend, a whisper of mystery. 

But ever before we reach the crest the night 
turns into day, 

The wind of morning is sweet with earth, 
and never a breath of sea. 


13 


14 


The Road 


The light of morning is on the hills, — and 
then you slip away, 

For only in the solemn dark do you ever 
come to me. 

And before my door the white road runs 
away to the mountains blue, 

A broad white band in the light of day, 
beyond the hills to the sea, 

But at night I dream of a setting forth, at 
night I dream of you — 

I feel the touch of your hand, I hear the 
song of your voice to me. 

Dorothy Gunnell Jenkins. 


THE SONG OF THOMAS THE 
RHYMER 


’\TOU have taken the sun and the stars 
from Heaven 

With your dusky eyes that glow like wine, 
You have taken the sweetness from the rose 
With the touch of your warm red lips on 
mine. 

You have stilled the song in the meadow- 
lark’s throat 

With your voice that holds all melody, 

And the fear is heavy upon my heart 
That you have taken my God from, me ! 

Marjorie Charles Driscoll. 


15 


DROSS 


U NDER the hawthorn by the garden wall 
The young men pass my dwellin’ ; 
Singin’, they pass by — pass by all — 

And last comes . . . Colin. 

Leaning, I hear the air he whistles gay. 

Have you forgot me, Colin? 

(In the red roofed town, a mile away, 

The church-bell’s tollin’.) 

— This is the gift that I have brought 
for ye, — 

Its worth is past all tellin’ ; 

A silver box and a silver key 
Is the gift o’ Colin. — 

My arms are wound about my heavy head — 
(I hear the cuckoo callin’.) 

The box and the key were pale, pale lead, — 
Colin .... Colin! 

Margery Bailey. 


16 


END-ALL 


W HEN, in some destined night-time, 
thou hast kissed 

My lips, so strangely cold ; and circling fear 
Clamps suddenly thy forehead and thy wrist 
Because I give no sign that thou art near, 
Because I have no word of greeting for thee, 
Nor eager arms, nor light of eyes, nor smile, 
Since death hath stilled, and never will 
restore thee 

The pulse that ran with thine so glad a 
while — 

Then gather what thou needest to pursue 
An unmoored life athwart the ways of men, 
Pile the quick fagots round my couch of 
yew, 

Light them, and face the night, alone again ; 
Nor look once up the mountain from afar 
Toward this loved cabin, flaring like a star. 

Maxwell Anderson. 


17 


ANTIGONE IN THE 
GREEK THEATRE 


A BOVE a blank, dead wall the treetops 
blur 

Against the changing pageant of the clouds. 
Below, a little lighted space; and there 
The poignant splendor of our human woe 
Surges across the eddying centuries 
To bear our spirits out upon its flood. 

O life that dies but does not yield to Death ! 
O flame that beacons Time’s oblivious night ! 
The changeless glory of a firm free soul 
Purges our hearts in high humility. 

The passionate music throbs along the dark 
Thrills to its chanted close ; the tale is told. 
The crowd, brief-hushed until the lights 
flash on, 

Swarms out into the world of sordid things, 
Leaving a blank, dead wall, where through 
the gloom 

Dim cloud-shapes swirl and drift incessantly. 

Mary Curry. 


18 


PAUSANIAS AT DODONA 


W HERE the breezes sing and swell 
And the pine trees sway and bend 
And the misty hills ascend 
Round the sacred grove and cell, 

Where the knowledge none can tell 
Darkling deities may lend, 

'And all evils may have end, 

Or dim sorrows rise from hell; 

Here I bide, my soul to mend, 
Knowing not which way to wend 
Through the thorns that cling and rend. 
Pity all poor souls that dwell 
Waiting in this wintry dell 
On the wordless oracle! 

When the way showed bright and free, 

And the glancing billows rolled 
Where the singing winds unfold 
All the sea-roads eagerly, 

All bright towns awaited me — 

Tyra with her dyes and gold, 

Haughty Sparta crowned and cold. 


19 


20 


Spring Unaware 


Corinth by the sparkling sea. 

Then my feet were overbold; 
Feebly now they fall, and old, 

And my eyes few visions hold. 
Songs and summers sink and flee ; 

Far to northward, wearily, 

Bide I now the deity. 

Karl Green. 


SPRING UNAWARE 

qpHE Spring has come ? How can it be 
-*■ ’Twas only yesterday I walked 
Out by the gray and wintry sea, 

And with the shiv’ring wavelets talked : 
They said, “The Spring is far away.” 
And yet — the lilacs bloom today. 

Agnes Kendrick Gray. 


A SONG OF THE EXPULSION 


Eve : 

Ho ! I was not afraid 
When God said that to us, 

And set the flaming sword at Eden’s gate. 
But Adam was — 

He was afraid for me — 

And so I put my arms about his neck 
And drew his head down on my breast 
And stroked it. 

Then I knew that I had eaten of the tree of 
knowledge, 

And I smiled. 

But when the darkness dropped down 
smothering, 

And no light shone upon us save 
The flaming, whirling red, back at the 
gate— 

And God seemed no more there — 

I clung to Adam and I trembled. 

Then he put his arms about me — 

Strong — 


21 


22 


The Pebbles 


And when they hurt I kissed them, 

And I did not care that I had missed 
The Tree of Life. 

So God was there again — 

Close all about us — 

And I looked at God and smiled and thanked 
Him. 

And He smiled at me. 

Elinor Valoy Cogswell. 


THE PEBBLES 

"PRETTY pebbles, smooth and white, 

Tell me, do you like the light? 

Did the Sea-Man blue and big 
Rub you round, or did he dig 
Down beneath his deepest wave 
In some quiet sparkly cave 
Where the Earth is roundest round — 

Was that the place where you were 
found ? 


Alice Marie Rogers. 


HATE 


T KNEW only love. 

I dwelt upon an island, in a sea 

Where every wave-lip curved a friendly 
smile ; 

The long transparent fingers of the sea 

Caressed my shore, cooling its fevered sands ; 

The breakers’ great green arches rolled in 
sweep 

Of invitation, bubbling into foam 

Of laughter when I found their hollows 
cold ; 

Wild night-storms thrilled my soul to glad- 
der heights 

Of ecstacy. — Why should my sea mean 
harm? 

I loved it. 

And then my little son died ; he was lame. 

And far out toward the sky-line of my sea 

A deep red stain like phosphorus darked 
the green, 

A little, horrid stain. Some one has said, 

“The child was lame; ’t is better that he 
died.” 


23 


24 


Hate 


Why should strange people think at all about 
A little lame boy, now that he is dead? 
And why must they be talking of my son ? 

A current draws the reddened water near, 
Staining its dear green depths to dull 
maroon, 

Bringing sharp echoes in its swift approach 
Of voices whispering, “It is better so.” 

I watch the dark thing spreading, near- 
ing; dread 

Of utter ruin for my dear green sea 
Catches my breath ; yet fascinated, still 
I almost urge the thing to hurry. Now 
The first dark drops have reached a 
breaker’s crest — 

Are crawling to my very shore. My feet 
Are wet with evil, dark-hued waves, that 
stroke 

In mocking comfort my distrustful shore. 
Their shallow voices croon, “’T is better 

__ a 

so. 

.... I am learning to hate. 

Gladys Briggs Cluff. 


TO AN OPIUM DEN— CHINATOWN 


T HREE little yellow lights and one of 
red! 

To me, who live too weak to fight or die, 
You promise dreams, with peace for lives 
awry. 

By night I creep to you, and lay my head 
So weary, there upon a narrow bed, 

And listen to the shuffling feet, and sigh 
To breathe again the poppies’ mild sup- 

ply. 

Then dreamily slip off Life’s tangled thread. 

O Night, that crowds the crooked, climb- 
ing street, 

Arrayed in sable black all laced with gold, 
Receive a coward soul, and lead my feet 
Out of the City’s brazen heat and cold, 
Past temple gong, — and there, your sign 
ahead, — 

Three little yellow lights and one of red ! 

Gordon Davis. 


25 


OLD 


T AM lonely. 

I sit in proper waiting, my black silk 

Trimmed with wrist-frills of yellowing real 
lace ; 

My skirt arranged in folds of dignity; 

My tortoise comb worn high. From 
Mother’s chair, 

The high-backed rocker of mahogany, 

I watch the people walking past my house. 

Nobody comes to see me but the years. 

I whisper to the pictures of my dead, 

Stare-eyed upon the grey stone' mantel- 
piece. — 

Time was, I thought they used to answer 
me ; 

He smiled, then. But one year came in the 
night 

And stole my little sister’s voice, and one 

Came shufflingly, with hunger-horrid tread, 

And took his smile. Since then I hate all 
years. 

26 


Light 


27 


I listen as the footsteps pass my house ; 
The living do not know me, and the dead 
Forget. No echo rises to translate 
The cemetery on my mantel-piece. 

For comfort, only fickle ghost-eyes peer 
Around the card-board head-stones of my 
dead. 

I am lonely. 

Nobody comes to see me but the years. 

Gladys Briggs Cluff. 


LIGHT 


C RAWLING mist. 

A pyramid of crawling mist 
Made out of night 
By a window, 

Yellow in the night. 


Geroid Robinson. 


MAGNIFICAT 


A H, GOD — an’ if, indeed, there be a God, 
The which I doubt, as is the custom 
now — 

I thank thee — if the myth be true — that 
thou 

Didst fashion me from out the worthless sod 
Into a mighty man, Lord of the earth, 

Able to take at will in self-made strife — 
And able, too, to give — warm, breathing 
life; 

Master of thine own secrets, death and birth. 

I thank thee that thou gav’st me mine own 
soul, 

That I need have no fear of Heav’n or 
Hell; 

That I can fight my own way to the goal 
And nought must do save live my own 
life well ; 

That I have e’en no need of thee — save in 
The hour of death, or grief, or doubt, or sin. 

Elinor Valoy Cogswell. 


28 


THE LAST LAUGH 


T am dead, and I did it myself. 

-*■ I lie deep in the cordial earth, 

Resting soft, though men tell it up there 
That the suicide’s chance is not worth 
Their brief mass for the dead, since the fair 
And high-judgmented God has made known 
That His personal summons alone 
Shall be warrant to die — 

But I wanted to die. 

It was one last gay gamble — I’ll own, 

But a slim stake remained from life’s spree — 
A cheap soul and a cap and some bells; 
They had proven quite useless to me, 
Worse than useless to anyone else. 

And I won. I did something myself. 

’Tis the only success that is writ 
’Gainst my name: “He accomplished his 
death.” 

I feel justified now to have quit, 

Though ’twas after my last reckless breath 
That the justification arrived. 


29 


30 


The Last Laugh 


I know not how much soul has survived 
This discourteous death — 

After all, ’twas my death 
And not God’s. Even He is deprived 
Of one realization ; they lie 
Where’s displayed the back side of the sod 
Who knows death’s charms ; but He cannot 
die, 

Else plainly He would not be God. 

Death is sweet ; I am proud of myself. 

Here I chuckle in ultimate glee 
While my creditors pity my bones, 

And dim fear of a judgment-to-be 
Impels fever-pulsed, conscience-tired drones 
To live on till the sickle shall swoop — 

I swift-lifted the bars of the coop 
And found heaven enough, — 

Godless heavens enough. 

Aye, ’tis best; here I’m nobody’s dupe. 
Poor God has a sick world on his soul, 
Bubbling wild with anathema, I 
One small glad-purring death. On the 
whole 

’Tis less sweet to be God than to die. 

Gladys Briggs Cluff. 


MOOD 


was the flood tide, 

It was the sea, 

And successions of shadows 
That whispered to me, — 

“Dream with the dreaming, 

Die with the dying, 

All that is lovely 
Has long been asleep.” 

Now ’tis the woodland, 

Trees in the vale, 

And processions of pilgrims 
That pleasantly hail, — 

“Move with the moving, 

Live with the living. 

Mists when once broken 
In cloud-fleets will sail.” 

George G. Hoisholt. 


31 


MATER DOLOROSA 


T AST night I heard the keenin’ at Patrick 
Connell’s wake, 

“O poor lad, O good lad — that you should 
have to go; 

But then the Lord has given, an’ sure the 
Lord may take — 

Let Mary help his mother to bear the 
bitter woe !” 

At dawn I heard the fishermen a-talkin’ on 
the quay, 

“A fine lad, a clean lad — that God may 
rest his soul; 

’Twas well he knew the fishin’ banks, ’twas 
well he loved the sea — 

Let Mary help his mother to bear the 
bitter dole!” 

At noon I saw him buried upon the windy 
hill; 

I saw the black earth cover the coffin 
from her sight — 

O Mary, in your mercy, be kindly to her 
still 

And pray to God her heart will break, 
that she may die tonight !” 

James Leo Duff. 


32 


IF I SHOULD GO 


TF I should go, 

Give me not place among the mustered 
dead, 

With solemn stone above my quiet head; 

Rather the hillside, with the gentle fall 
Of rain upon my grave, and wild bird’s 
call, 

If I should go. 

I think my sleep there would be sweet and 
sound, 

With old brown roots above, and soft earth 
’round ; 

And when the south wind, passing, broke 
my rest, 

There would an answer quiver in my 
breast, 

If I should go. 

Gladys Green. 


33 


MORTEM SALUTO 

To S. C. 

T SIT in this dull bleak room with its 
blank white walls, 

Ghastly and dumb as death. The silence 
palls 

On my spirit, but I have no thought of dread 

Though I stay alone with a coffin and her 
who they say is dead. 

But I cannot think of her so, her of the 
sturdy will, 

Her of the faultless courage and never-fail- 
ing faith, 

The dominant air of command, the swift and 
certain skill — 

I cannot think of her as giving way to 
Death. 

And yet she’s lying there, breathless and still 
and white — 

Her features, her hands unchanged from the 
way they were last night. 

People come snuffling in to look on the face 
of the dead, 

“Good soul, she’s happier now — now that 
her spirit’s fled 


34 


Mortem Saluto 


35 


From life’s grim battles, and she has found 
her peace instead.” 

Her spirit fled, indeed! Fools, do they 
think to ease 

The pain of loss (if she’s gone) with such 
ill words as these? 

Oh, must they come to me and say she has 
found release, 

Say she is resting now and foolishly prattle 
of peace? 

They ! they knew her not — her who brooked 
no defeat. 

If she be truly dead, then went she forth to 
greet 

A Will unbent as hers, found Death a com- 
panion meet, 

Laughingly took his hand, fearlessly said, 
“We two 

Had best be friends. You are strong, but I 
should conquer you. 

Here is my body — a gift — you take it as 
from a friend. 

But the soul that is I lives on — and shall 
live on to the End !” 


James Leo Duff. 


A PORTRAIT 
(To my Father) 

W ITH gentle fingers Time has touched 
your brow, 

And lines that do but make the face more 
fair 

Have etched the story of a noble life. 

One sees much love and patient service 
there ; 

A steadfast virtue that is merciful, 

And pities — not condemns — the frailer clay ; 
Self-sacrifice that finds its quiet joy 
In giving all it has from day to day. 
Undying pain has left its traces here, 

And lonely battles fought — and bravely 
won ; 

Success attained, and humble modesty 
That wishes better, work that is well done ! 

Time paused, and looked a moment in your 
eyes, 

And saw the vision of a soul sublime, — 
And touched them not ! — and now whene’er 
you smile, 

The heavens open, and there is no Time. 

Dorothy Stillman Duryea. 


36 


STAR DUST 


A WINTER sky at sunset; a stretch of 
soot-flecked snow; 

A bridge whose long, cold blackness juts 
between ; 

The crowded turmoil of a city far below; 

Above, just you and I, alone, unseen. 

Against the clouded saffron, blue smoke 
rose and curled 

From furnace fires burning on and on, 

Where grimy men obeyed the clamorous 
wheels that whirled 

Their lives away like echoes, sobbing, 
gone. 

A heritage of steel, your destined trust, 

Was reaching toward our height to 
bring you down. 

You, who so loved the stars, were granted 
merely dust — 

But from the shattered bits you shaped 
a crown. 

H. Hardy Heth. 


37 


SHANEEN 


L ADDIE, d’ye mind Shaneen, 

That tuk ye to his heart ? 

D’ye mind th’ laughin’ eyes of him, 

Th’ whimsical surprise of him, 

Th’ love-that-never-dies of him 
That tuk ye to his heart ? 

Laddie, d’ye mind Shaneen, 

Who’d cure your woes with joy? 

Oh, if ye spent a day with him 
What could ye be but gay with him ? 

It seemed he had a way with him 
Ud cure your woes with joy. 

Laddie, d’ye mind Shaneen, 

Whose heart was broke in two? 

That part ye never seen of him? 

But that was the Shaneen of him — 
His heart was broke in two. 

James Leo Duff. 


38 


LUCK! 


T ET there live aye a lad’s laugh in the 

■“ throat of you — 

Let you aye have a gay swing to the coat 
of you — 

Let there aye be one poorer to borrow a 
groat of you ! 

Let you find hands of dear women to mother 
you — 

Let you find shoulders of comrades that 
brother you — 

Let you find arms of the small ones to 
smother you ! 

Let folk be the happier just for the nod 
of you — 

Let you be in love with the road that is 
trod of you — 

Let Death be a step betwixt you and the 
God of you ! 

Dare Stark. 


39 


WAKING IN THE MORNING 


W AKING in the morning, 
Looking down the lane, 
There I spied a bonny lad, 
Whistling in the rain. 

From my bed I saw him 
(Through the lattice wide) 
Bare of head and bright of eye. 
Cocky was his stride! 

Whistling to the morning, 

Clear and full and loud, 

That the rain-drops beat a tune, 
That he feared no cloud, 

That no lass could ever 
Dare to say him nay. 

Sure, the rain has beat a tune — 
In my heart, all day. 

Sydnie Gardner. 


40 


THE WANDERER 


* I "'HE little friendly houses, when day- 
■*“ hours are done, 

They kindle up their little lights, one after 
one. 

Like little hands, the friendly lights fling 
out each coaxing ray — 

There's a wind in my heart that will not 
let me stay. 

The little friendly houses stir their red 
hearth-ash again. 

The little kindly fire-hands tap at the lattice- 
pane. 

“The world is wide and chill tonight,” the 
little fires say — 

There's a wind in my heart that will not 
let me stay. 

The little friendly houses, warm with fire, 
warm with light — 

Havens for the heart o’ men through the 
windblown night — 

Happy little houses — I bless you on my 
way. — 

There's a wind in my heart that will not 
let me stay. 


41 


Dare Stark. 


HOME 


N IGHT; 

Bleak and storm-swept plains; 
A muddy road. 

Silence ; 

Only rain-beat 
And the thud 


Of weary feet; 

Blackness ; 

One more mile of trudging 
Up the dreary height, 

And then — 

A light! 

Robert Donaldson. 


AT THE END OF A DAY OF 
DISAPPOINTMENTS 

T THINK it was a kindly thing 
That God allowed this day to die 
So splendidly. 

A solace words could never bring 
Is on the earth — and in the sky 
A prophecy. 


42 


James Leo Duff. 


SMOKE 


'T'HERE is magic in all smoke : 

-*• From the warmth of quiet hearth-fires, 
Copper-grey, dark-glowing in a shadowy 
room, 

Rises the smoke of dreams and memory 
Of love and warm, human things ; 

From pipes the slow, sweet smoke of peace 
and idleness, 

Full of visions ; 

From burning houses the black smoke of 
terror, 

Lit with red sparks 
Flaring to a dark heaven. 

But out in the clear silence of early morning, 
By the running water, 

Where trees meet above grey stones, mak- 
ing green secret places, 

And the sun sprinkles little lights on the 
pools, 

There is the smoke of joy and wildness, 

Of youth and sudden laughter, and long 
breaths of wonder — 


43 


44 


Smol^e 


The smoke of the camp fire rising from 
blackened wood, — 

Slow, fragrant, 

Lingering in thin blue curl. 

The scent of it thrills with the spirit of all 
wild things — 

Lure of the woods — dried grass and broken 
sticks ; 

Violet-tinged trunks of tall trees ; 

Grey, moss-hung branches ; 

Vivid, tiny flowers set in wet fields ; 

The cautious, shining glide of fish 
Moving deep down in still green pools; 
The quick leap of a startled jack- rabbit; 
The clear, long joy-call of a hidden bird. 
All these live in the good smell of smoke — 
The blue, quiet smoke of camp fires. 

Doris Estcourt. 


SEA MUSIC 

I KNOW the peace of twilight shadowed 
hill, 

Of stately headland dim displayed and far, 
The pale reflection of a single star, 

And shore-bird’s cry that passes and is still. 
I know the wild delights that foam and fill 
As the great tide sweeps inward from the 
bar, 

Followed by all the sea-born winds that 
are, 

While the dry grasses on the cliff-brow 
thrill. 

I know the challenge of a distant ship, 

The glory of the surf beneath full moon ; 
I know the dread of sudden fogs that slip 
Across the sun and shroud the murdered 
noon. 

A note from every lyric of the sea 
Rings strange and vibrant in the soul of 
me. 

Gladys Green. 


45 


IN MARCH 


'T'HERE are fauns — girl fauns. 

I know it. I was one. 

And I stood under a tree — 

Deep in odd-spiced shrubs a-flower — 
And suddenly, in my stead, 

Crouched a small fey-eyed thing. 

Its shoulder was brown and nut-bare ; 

Its flank was hid in rough silk fur ; 

Its wee hard hoof pressed the turf. 
Within it was no heart — nor any soul — 
But a quick-bubbling pool of pure glee. 
Two little March-night-winds 
Seized its pointy quivering ears 
And whispered, “Run ! 

March was made for fauns! 

March — and wild vines — and a moon!’" 
And it started up — and changed. 

* * * 

But there are fauns. 

Dare Stark. 


46 


IN THE ENGLISH SEMINAR ROOM 


TTERE in the Seminar I sat me down 
Some moments since. My books I 
opened wide, 

And fixed my mind upon the printed page. 

But lo ! this minute now I find my eyes 

Unknowing, turned upon the wide outdoors. 

Beyond the red roofs rise the rolling hills, 

Beyond the hills the wooded Coast-range 
lies, 

The redwood trees upon the serrate ridge 

Are set blue-black against the deep blue sky. 

The lower levels show the green of spring; 

Almost the wind brings in the heavenly 
smells 

That are the spring to me — ploughed earth, 
and grass, 

And faint, sweet breath of buds not open 
yet — 

Nay, I must turn me now again to books, 

To books which hold the wisdom of all time. 


47 


48 


Wind at Night 


Yet here are only black marks on a page, 
Black letters orderly and neat in rows, — 
And still that acrid, faintly-blowing air 
Strays in upon my sense, and still my heart 
Is called by those far colors of the hills. 
Books, books ? what are they ! Why, I live ! 
I live ! 

I go where life is — to the hills, my hills ! 
To all the living green of wide out-doors ! 

Sydnie Gardner. 


WIND AT NIGHT 

'T'HE wind at night: it is the far-borne 
voice 

Of all who ever lived. Ay, their dead souls 
Cry out against the impotence of life — 
Blind life, that merges into blinder death 
And rushes headlong down the moaning 
wind. 


Mary Curry. 


OLD LETTERS 


r I "'HIS little packet lying in my hands 
-*■ Of old, age-yellowed letters from the 
years 

Now perished — ah, how many smiles 
and tears 

Lie ink-traced on their pages, ’neath the 
bands 

That bind them round. My mind scarce 
understands 

That from the buried past each word ap- 
pears 

Here in the breathing present. My hand 
fears 

To loose the wrappings as my will com- 
mands. 


For here lie words that sprung from one 
clear brain 

That now is food for worms; and words 
from one 

That ’twould be better if worms fed upon ; 

And here lie words of love traced all too 
plain. 

Yet shall I read them through and smile 
when done. 

So much of pleasure mingles with old pain. 

Maurice Dooling. 


49 


BOOKS 


A RE these your new books? 

•*** These, with their stiff bindings and 
their uncut leaves 

Fresh with the ink? 

So many hundred, piled like cordwood, all 
alike. 

Juliet and Juliet and Juliet — 

Think of a thousand Juliets in a row ! 

These are not books. 

These are only unsullied covers, binding 
printed words, 

Maddeningly, reiteratingly alike. 

They are like a row of beautiful women at 
a ball, 

Beautiful faces, beautiful gowns, beautiful 
manners, 

And not a glimpse of a soul in any of them. 

They have never lived, they have never 
made anybody live. 

Give me old books. 

Battered, worn, — covers gone, if you will, — 

Ink faded, perhaps. 


50 


Boo^s 51 

Somebody’s thoughts hinted in faint pencil- 
marks — 

Who loved that stanza once, I wonder, and 
why? — 

They are like the faces of old people, 

Life speaking through every wrinkle, every 
furrow, 

Height or depth, but whatever it is, some- 
thing that has been lived — 

Something goes into a book when a man 
reads it and loves it. 

I do not want books, I want a Book, 

And the feel of somebody who has lived in 
and through it and because of it. 

Marjorie Charles Driscoll. 


LITTLE PAT 


HERE’S times I do be dreamin’ 



(But then I’m gettin’ old) 
Of a little barefoot ladeen 
With towsled head of gold, 
With sparklin’ eyes of laughter 
(’Tis mischief he’d be after), 
And ye’d thank him as a favor 
If he did what he was told. 


There’s times I do be dreamin’ — 

But sure dead years are dead, 

And quare old thoughts come botherin’ 
A bachelor’s old head — 

Yet dreamin’ has the start o’ me — 

I cannot still the heart o’ me, 

And since there is no Little Pat, 

I’ll dream of him instead. 


James Leo Duff. 


52 


LITTLE YEAR 


L ITTLE YEAR was born last night; 

I heard the church-bells ring 
And all the people laugh and shout 
As loud as anything. 

I’d think that Little Year would be 
Most awfully scared at that. 

I was — I went and hid my head 
In Mother’s garden hat. 

Alice Marie Rogers. 


FUZZY-WUZZY 

I DOT a fluffy Tabby-Tat 
Name Pitty Pussy Willow. 

Her turl up on da soft-mat 
Des like a fuzzy pillow. 

An’ w’en I tate my sleepy snooze 
An’ shut my winkie blinkies 
And tick off bof my booty-shoes — 
Her turn an’ warm my pinkies. 

Fauna Wynne Farris. 


53 


TO A WOOD-RAT 


Whose home was destroyed by a class in 
Zoology. 

O CH, it pulls at me heart to see you 
afflicted, 

You with th’ great, sobbin’ eyes of ye 
there ; 

Could the Irish stand by to see one evicted 
An’ say, “I don’t care ?” 

You that have labored your home to be 
earnin’, 

You’ve toiled in th’ buildin’ be day an’ 
be night. 

Now they’ve pulled it apart for th’ sake of 
their learnin’ — 

God send thim light! 

James Leo Duff. 


54 


TO A LITTLE BUG 
Caught in a Spider's Web. 

T)OOR little insect, born for a day, 

Strugglin’ there in that foul demon’s 
net, 

What sin did ye sin that you’re havin’ to 
pay 

So much of your life to get out of its 
debt? 

Sure, a minyit to you is th’ same as a week ! 

You’ve maybe been wrigglin’ a year to be 
free — 

Come here now. I’ll loose ye. There — make 
a cold sneak — 

An’ if God is objectin’, just blame it on 
me ! 

James Leo Duff. 


55 


THE THORN 


,/ T^WAS years ago. October third, 

When summer flowers were dying. 
A great, ungainly, long-legged bird 
Came awkwardly a-flying 
And settled on the green-leaved thorn 
Beside the house where I was born. 

He bore a bundle in his bill, 

He groaned and sighed most soulful, 

And piteous tears began to spill 
Out of his eyes, most doleful, 

Upon the charitable thorn 

Beside the house where I was born. 

“In name of holy Sorrow, why, 

Thou most unhappy creature, 

Dost thou lugubriously sigh, 

Distorting every feature ?” 

Thus quoth the sympathetic thorn 
Beside the house where I was born. 

“For many weary days Fve wept; 

The whole world is a scoffer. 


56 


The Thorn 


57 


There’s not a family will accept 
The precious gift I offer,” 

The joyless fowl sobbed to the thorn 
Beside the house where I was born. 

“I have a plan to help thee out, 

And no one’s home to stop it : 

Lift up the bundle in thy snout 
And dexterously drop it 
Through yonder window,” said the thorn 
Beside the house where I was born. 

With brightened physiognomy 
The lanky bird upstarted, 

Deposited the Jonah, me, 

And hastily departed, 

Thanking the unsuspecting thorn 
Beside the house where I was born. 

But when he saw ’twas I who came, 

And not a gift desired, 

The thorn turned crimson red with shame,. 
And righteous anger fired 
The all too credulous old thorn 
Beside the house where I was born. 


58 


Monterey 


Since he committed that grave sin, 

The thorn is shy and sober ; 

His leaves blush crimson with chagrin 
The third of each October. 

It is a penitential thorn 

Beside the house where I was born. 

Fauna Wynne Farris. 


MONTEREY 

A FISHING fleet and a crooked street, 
With a soldier at every bar; 

A ’dobe wall where the lizards crawl, 

And a screechy, wobbly car. 

A darksome sky with the fog blown high, 
And a quiet, purple bay; 

A Spanish song as we passed along — 

And that was Monterey ! 

Glenn Arthur Hughes. 


THE GRAVE OF A GARDEN 


A T the foot of a haze-hid mountain, 
Watched o’er by turquoise skies, 
Where the pearl-dew drips like a fountain, 
The grave of a garden lies. 

The lilac bush by the highway 
Is dead, and its blossoms are gone ; 

The pink hollyhock stands lonely 
And pale in the silent dawn. 

The sunken sun-dial is covered 
With ivy all yellow and red, 

No longer it watches the moving sun, — 

It dreams of the time that is dead. 

At the foot of a haze-hid mountain, 
Watched o’er by the star-lit skies, 

Where the night-wind sobs like a fountain, 
The grave of a garden lies. 

Robert V. Higgins. 


59 


THE MOONLIT SEASONS. 


T HE Winter snow gleams white and 
cold; 

The twilight’s all but faded; 

A wind pours out, chill, boistrous, bold ; 

Each crevice is invaded. 

With whited glare the moon appears, — 
The age-old orb of myriad years ! 

As Spring trips through the city street 
With shy and furtive dancing, 

A breeze floats out, the flowers to greet, 
Then comes the scene entrancing; 

The moon from out the east appears, — 

The age-old orb of myriad years ! 

The daylight fades, the Summer sky 
Grows dark with star-points gleaming ; 

A hot breeze comes with tropic sigh ; 

A lantern moon, rays seeming 
To tip the palms with fire, appears, — 

The age-old orb of myriad years ! 

Then Autumn, gay with burning leaves 
And buxom robust graces, 


60 


Fire of the Desert 


61 


Sings with the wind that shakes the 
sheaves ; 

And in the night embraces 
The mellow moon that soon appears, — 

The age-old orb of myriad years. 

James W. Bennett. 


FIRE OF THE DESERT 

qpHE sun set red tonight! 

And oh, if thou hadst stood 
With me beneath that light 
Which flamed above the sand 
Thou couldst have understood 
Things I now understand ; — 

The sun set red tonight ! 

The sun set red tonight ! 

And as I saw the world 
Flame red beneath the light, 

I saw two hearts of youth 
Blend rose-red with the world — 
The rose-red world of youth ; — 

The sun set red tonight! 

Glenn Arthur Hughes. 


THE CYPRESS TREE 


T HERE is a cypress tree 

That grows midway of the hill. 
Upward it looks at the castle towers ; 
Downward it looks at the mill. 

It looks on the dusty flocks 

Brought home in the twilight grey ; 

It looked on the miller’s lovely daughter 
A year ago and a day. 

Ah, when the sun goes down 
Its shadow is long and stark. 

The light still glows on the castle walls ; 
Dark is the mill-race . . . dark. 

Margery Bailey. 


62 


THE TAMBOUR-FRAME 
Palace 

r | "'HE king sat lonely upon his throne 
And dreaming he said, 

“You were once my own ; 

Life mine as you stood, body mine if I 
chose, 

But a heart and its love not a king even 
knows. 

As you stood before me, bowing your head, 
With this eager hand 
I fastened a pearl-strewn woven band 
In your loosened hair. 

And I kissed your brow and a single strand 
That dropped from the circlet and fell. 

No more did I dare ! 

Had I kissed your lips I had burned in hell ! 
So I kissed them not, but bade you go. 

Is there any pain I am yet to know, 

Any greater pain to tell ?” 


63 


64 


The Tambour Frame 


Cloister. 

She knelt and tightened the tambour-frame 
And mused, “Oh, I could break you now, 
My hands held so ! 

And whose the blame 

If I break you to pieces (you’re mine!) and 
throw 

The pieces into the street below ? 

You would be willing, perchance, to allow 
That I kiss you there, not on your brow. 

My fingers are soft, your brittle frame, 
(Brittle as fame!) 

And this is love, as I snap you in two ; 
When I toss you out, what is shame ! 

And here! to keep you true 

Is a pearl-strewn band thrown after you !” 

Clarence B. Hammond. 


SHAKESPEARE WENT TO ITALY 


S hakespeare went to Italy 

Dressed as any squire might be, — 
Silver buckles, new high ruff, 

Crimson suit of best wool-stuff, 

Broad soft hat, and cresting plume 
From which time had brushed no bloom. 
He was young as you or I, 

Eyes as clear, and hopes as high : 

“Fll see the world before I die! 
Farewell, greasy dressing-rooms, 

Hollow praising, shallow dooms, 

Pranks of fools and rant of boys, 

Packed pits cheering naught but noise, 
Strut of conqueror, quip of tongue, 
Strumpets old and strumpets young — 
Any friends but such a band, 

Any land but Angle-land, 

Any region not so boggy, 

Sordid, torpid, chilly, foggy! 

Italy, O Italy, 

Open your heart. Make room for me.” 


65 


66 Shakespeare Went to Italy 

Shakespeare came from Italy 
A sight for gods and men to see — 

Suit discolored, baggy, worn, 

Shoes run down, and gold lace torn, 
While the buckles he was wearing 
On that glorious forth-faring 
They were either sold or bartered; 

Ay, he wore his hose cross-gartered 
Just to make them hold together 
And keep out the pinching weather: 
“Lazy, lazy is the south, 

Hopeless, sluggish, hand to mouth; 

Tis a land of sleepy showers 
And of tainted, fruitless hours, 

Squalid fortunes, shimmering dreams, 
Rubbish piles, and fairy streams, 

Where folk love not land nor gold, 

Care not that they must grow old. 

Just another month, I swear, 

With the lotus-eaters there, 

I had slept sweet life away 

Not a whit more grieved than they ! 

Give me bitter autumn’s mood; 

Every breath of fog is good ; 

Grip of frost and haughty north, 

Wint’ry clouds, draw down, come forth 


Spring in the Hospital 


67 


Frown thine iron frown, O earth, 

Put an edge upon our mirth ! 

Under heav’n there’s no more gay house 
Than this musty little play-house, 

Nor is there poetry, I wis, 

Better over hell than this 
That our actors, strutting furious, 
Mangle in a manner curious, 

As the mists come settling down 
Daily, over London town !” 

Maxwell Anderson. 


SPRING IN THE HOSPITAL 

npHE hours pass slow in the chambers of 
pain, 

But the tranquil-eyed nurse’s deft fingers 
are cool, 

Without sounds the rustle and flutter of 
wings, 

As the robins dip low o’er the curve of their 
pool. 


Robert V. Higgins. 


THE WATERSIDE LASS 

T WALKED on the sand of the riverside, 
And the tide came swinging down; 
And by and came a sailor lad, 

With a face all red and brown. 

Oh, have ye been on Mersey water, 

Or have ye been on Dee, 

Or have ye sailed the cold salt seas 
To far Ameriky? 

— I have not seen the Mersey water, 

For seven long years and three, 

Nor the Dee water, nor the cold salt seas 
Of North Ameriky. 

For I have been where the days are hot 
And the nights are velvet bland ; 

The sea at noon is a hot blue eye, 

And the shore is white as your hand ; 

The maids are black and yellow and 
brown, 

And they stick red blooms in their 
hair. 


68 


The Waterside Lass 


69 


— Oh, have ye brought no gift for me, 
For I see your hands are bare? 

— I have brought home a gift for ye 
That’s more than my hands can hold ; 

I would not sell this gift o’ mine 
For all o’ my Captain’s gold. 

— I have no wish for a rich man’s gift, 

A chain or a jeweled ring; 

I’d rather have had a little yellow bird 
That you had taught to sing. 

— Oh, rede my riddle, my fair maid fair, 
And swear by book and bell, 

Is the gold of the Spanish captain more 
Than a heart that loves you well? — 

I stood before his shining face, 

And the tide went creeping up ; 

And my face was held in his two hands 
As the wine is held in the cup. 


Margery Bailey. 


CRUCIFIED 
A War Christmas. 


/ T'HE man had entered awkwardly 
Although he knew his wife 
Would surely welcome him to see 
Their Christmas gift of life. 

He called her Mary. Long and long 
They sat together there 
And Joseph prophesied how strong 
The lad would be, and fair. 

* * * 

Joseph the Carpenter is old, 

And Mary’s eyes are dim 
That watch his calloused hands unfold 
The thing. She comes to him 

And they together read it all: 

“ ’Twas thus and so he died 
In answer to his country’s call. 

The King is gratified.” 

Geroid Robinson. 


70 


THE PARABLE OF THE VINEYARD 


'T'HEY stood at the gate of the vineyard, 
the master and his son, 

And workmen came from the harvest and 
he paid them every one. 

Now some since the early morning had bent 
o’er the laden vine, 

While scourged with sunbeams quivered the 
hills of Palestine, 

And some had begun their labors in the far 
spent afternoon, 

But he paid them each a penny, though they 
started late or soon. 

The men who had worked the longest went 
with a curse and a frown, 

And the others, gay with the bounty, to the 
wineshops of the town. 

Masterful, cool and haughty, tall in the 
evening glow : 

“Ye agreed I should judge your wages; 
this is my fancy; go.” 

Scornful and grim he towered till the last 
man shambled by, 


71 


72 The Parable of the Vineyard 

Then he spoke to the youth in sorrow, “My 
son, you have wondered why 

I should treat God’s children as cattle and 
scorn his creatures as swine, 

Who the rabbis say are my brothers ; whose 
hearts are the same as mine. 

But yet, you will say, God made them, and 
surely He loves them yet. 

Acres of vine and olive, forests of hills in 
ward 

Lie as a burden upon me, the steward of the 
Lord, 

Heavily crushing my shoulders till my years 
are nearly done, 

And you in your turn must bear it, for you 
are your father’s son. 

Lords of the earth, God-chosen, we hold it 
in trust alone 

Till the time of the trust is over and the 
heirs demand their own. 

Truly the Father made them, — truly the 
writings say 

Almost as high as the angels; — nearer the 
beasts today; 

Petty, selfish and jealous, lusts of the flesh 
and of gain, 


The Parable of the Vineyard 73 

And those we oppress are sullen and those 
we favor are vain, 

But all of them take my penny and cower 
before my eye, 

And never a man to meet it and thunder 
the question, ‘Why?’ 

What can we do to aid them when the liv- 
ing spirit of God 

They bury beneath corruption like a flower 
beneath the clod? 

O mountains of fair Judea, ye were given 
them for their own, 

But man is not led to glory; he must fight 
his way up alone. 

So ever we grind them lower and ever we 
wax more bold, 

Pay less for the labor they give us and 
gather more lands and gold 

Till their deathless souls shall quicken the 
weak, starved clay at last 

And then shall our trust be ended and the 
time of our labor be past. 

Ended, I said? I was dreaming; the task 
will be scarce begun ; 

We must fight them through ages and ages 
till they conquer and we have won. 


74 The Parable of the Vineyard 

Lest they falter, it never must waver, the 
battle of mind and sword, 

Till they fight their way to the throne of 
God and the presence of the Lord. 

They shall look in His face and know Him 
and know they are His heirs, 

And that they and we are His partners and 
the world is ours and theirs. 

Then shall the sword be rusted and the flags 
forever furled 

And none shall be lord of another and each 
shall be lord of the world. 

But, my son, be a stranger to pity, aloof and 
beyond their reach, 

For the hand of God smites sorely when He 
hath a lesson to teach.” 


William Logan. 


KINGS 


T HE kings are failing; 

Their race is old; 

They need more madmen, 

They must have gold. 

The kings are famished, 

They faint for food; 

Bring them fresh bodies, 

Bring them fresh blood. 

Lift not your voices 
To laugh or to pray; 

The kings must have battle — 
Give it today. 

A drooping sceptre — 

A toppling crown — 

Rise and slay quickly 
Or they are down ! 

With broken nations, 

With bleeding things, 

With hate and darkness 
Bolster your kings. 

Maxwell Anderson. 


75 


THE CROSS 


THE OLD. 

*p\ I M- PILLARED aisles 
Mounting up the West, 

High altared, 

High windowed, 

Toward the setting sun. 

Chanting — 

Soft flow of music — 

Stately treading of a white procession 
Following the cross — 

A golden cross, 

And somewhat lightly borne 
Toward the setting sun. 

THE NEW. 

A plunging street 
Of yellow lights 
Chill with black dawn, 

Choked with bodies 
Low bowed 
As of worshipers, 

Noisy with shuffling feet, 

Hurrying. 


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The Cross 


77 


A black, plunging street, 

And down at the end of it 
A tower 
Breathing red, 

Breathing black, 

Torn at by the dawn breath, 

Crowned with smoke 
Stretched this way and that — 

Crossed with black smoke 
Toward the rising sun. 

Geroid Robinson. 


EVENING ON THE HILLS 
O emerge suddenly from the noisy, pent- 



up offices, 

With the weight of a day’s toil upon your 
brow, 

To step all at once from the gloom, the 
oppressiveness, 

And to be met face to face, 

Like a prophecy, like a transfiguration, 

By the mountains in the radiant evening 
light: 

Ah, that is blessedness ! 

As the Emperor-moth bursts from his nar- 
row cell, 

And stretches his damp wings to the light, 
So does my spirit break its prison bars, 
And spread its pinions on your shining 
slopes, O hills, 

And dip its crumpled pinions in the blue 
And lambent shadows of your vales, 

And in the golden haze which o’er your face 
Moves with the lingering splendor of a 
smile. 


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Evening on the Hills 


79 


Heart of my heart, another day is done ; 
Another day have I been crucified 
Amid the din of typewriters, the papers, 
ledgers, pens, 

The rush of feet, the babble of harsh 
tongues. 

And yet again, when on the verge of death, 
Have I been summoned back to life, 

To life and life’s vast sweetness, by your 
touch, 

The touch of God upon the evening hills, 
Upon the tender and imperishable hills. 

Helen Kreps. 


LONGING 


I AM the soul of winter, 

The sweeping reach of snow, 
The frozen pond, the beaten road, 
The nights when blizzards blow ; 

I am the icy storm-wind, 

The silence and the chill ; 

I am the pulse of Longing 
That never will be still. 

I am the burning desert, 

The choking heat, the sand ; 

I am the purple mountain range 
Of God-forgotten land; 

I am its awful silence, 

Its grim and powerful will ; 

I am the pulse of Longing 
That never will be still. 

I am the endless vastness 
Untouched by human hand ; 

I am the goal of wanderlust, 

The heart of virgin land ; 


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Longing 


81 


I am the unknown river, 

Its mystery, its thrill; 

I am the pulse of Longing 
That never will be still. 

I am the depth of forest, 

I am the ocean’s call, 

I am the lure of the unknown, 
The vastness of it all; 

I am the starry heaven, 
Unfathomable, chill; 

I am the pulse of Longing 
That never will be still. 


Robert Donaldson. 


MOONS 


A THROUGH an Orchard’s tangled vis- 
tas, aisled 

With evanescent Blooming, I, — a Child, — 

Against the whiteness of the scented Moon 

First beheld Beauty’s flitting face and wild. 

Where the Night-earth had glimmered into 
Sea, 

Stirring that misted Plain’s immensity 

Of wave-soft Grasses flowing toward the 
Moon, 

First felt I the dim breath of Mystery. 

I 

One night of Fall the Hills were brilliant- 
bare 

With every Pebble shadowed black and 
clear ; 

To a far dog-fox barking at the Moon 

I heard Adventure answer from his Lair. 

» 

Once in a Woodlake’s Bowl of sapphire 
Night 

The opened Bud of Heaven floated bright; 


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Moons 


83 


And reaching for that pearl-round, perfect 
Moon 

I touched the groping Hand of Lost Delight. 

When I am free of Heaven, being dead, 
And every Trail of Stars is mine to tread, 
Shall I not yearn beside the wistful Moon 
For my own Humanness, that now has fled ? 

Dare Stark. 


YOUTH 


T AM the render of chains ; 

I am the filcher of fire ; 

Rebellion flows in my veins ; 

I may not rest for desire. 

You have made me a law ? I shall break it. 

You have set me a bound? I shall pass. 
You choose this your own ? I shall take it. 
Your bonds are of glass ! 

Your gods on high are of lead ; 

Silent they sit through the days ; 

What they have said they have said, — 
What they have written stays. 

For them is not going nor coming, 

Birth, nor decay, nor strife; 

They smite like a palsy, benumbing 
The hot pulse of life ! 

What flotsam is to the flood, 

What wreckage is to the sea, 

What to the whirlwind the wood, 

Such are their laws to me. 

The gods! must I heed their thunder? 

They rage! must I kneel and pray? 

I bear them down and asunder — 

I am greater than they! 

Maxwell Anderson. 

84 


DESIRE 


npHE planets circle me in rings ; 

Each gold-tongued star my kingship 
sings ; 

I am the hungry god Desire, 

Whom Death himself does but inspire 
To furious life. The flood he flings — 

The feathers of wee broken wings, 

Pale ashes of the hopes of kings — 

Rekindle at my heart’s white fire 
To flame anew. 

And in that day when sunset brings 
No world-sad dream of sweeter things ; 
When men, too weary to aspire, 

Content without the stars retire; 

When no child to my warm hand clings, 
God pity you. 

Gladys Briggs Cluff. 


85 


AMATEURS 


A LOFT among the gallery gods, 

Whose peering faces crowd the night 
With muttered breath and mocking nods, 
There waits the Keeper of the Light. 

From out the pit the roll and crash 

Of music comes, and through the dark 
The spot pours down a blinding flash 
Upon its momentary mark. 

It is Pierrette that flutters there 
Alone, until there comes Pierrot; — 
Comes hissing, laughter and despair, 

And darkness blots them as they go. 

They tried, O God, how hard they tried ; 

Though loveliness was theirs, and grace, 
The Keeper of the Light denied 
A moment more to their embrace. 

Geroid Robinson. 


86 


THE DREAMER 


' I MME plucked for me a single golden 
flower 

That God had planted in Eternity. 

“See,” said he, smiling, “I will give it thee 

To do with as thou wilt, this priceless hour.” 

Musing upon it, “Shall I purchase Power 

With this, or Fame?” I thought; “or 
shall it be 

To Duty given, or deathless Charity? 

Or can Love lure it from me?” Like a 
shower 

Of autumn leaves by vagrant breezes 
blown, 

My thoughts flashed on me. Ah, too fair 
to choose 

Among them. I must think, and dream, 
and muse. 

It must be some great deed to make me 
known. 

“This plan ... or this . . . no, that ... or 
shall I use — ” 

“Nay, cease to plan,” said Time, “the 
hour is flown.” 

Maurice Dooling. 


87 


DREAMS 


L AST night I sang, and from my silver 
throat 

Flowed sweeter tones than those of lark 
or thrush; 

The world kept silence till the last pure note 
Died in a breath, and left a quivering 
hush. 

Last night I danced, and to my winged feet 
The stars of heaven tuned their sym- 
phony. 

From grove and field and many a still re- 
treat, 

I charmed the wood-nymphs with my 
witchery. 

Dream when thou mayest ! From the kindly 
night 

Ask thy heart’s wish, for when the sun 
is up, 

The wine of dreams fades in the searching 
light, 

Leaving in eager hands an empty cup. 

Gladys Green. 


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